


All my nightmares escaped my head (bar the door, please don't let them in)

by watchthequeenconquer



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Choking, Developing Relationship, Drug Addiction, First Kiss, Hallucinations, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Acceptance, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:02:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25302037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchthequeenconquer/pseuds/watchthequeenconquer
Summary: The shovels are coming for Tommy.Lost in the smoke and haunted by the war, the sudden appearance of Alfie Solomons in the middle of the night might just be the salvation he's looking for.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 17
Kudos: 72





	All my nightmares escaped my head (bar the door, please don't let them in)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [When_Tommy_Met_Alfie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie/gifts).



> Thank you for writing broken Tommy like no other and for your contribution to the fandom.
> 
> Title from Welcome Home Son by Radical Face. 
> 
> I do not own.

The shovels are coming for him.

The ringing begins, the ominous metallic scraping against the papered walls of his room, echoing thunderously off the cracked ruin of the inside of his skull.

Daybreak abandons him, another treacherous soldier fleeing their post as the enemy closes in.

His blue eyes are wide open, petrified in their sockets, blinded by the smoky haze of debris. His mouth open, screaming wordlessly; is filling with earth. He realises too late that the taste of iron is from his own lip where he’s chewed through it in desperate anticipation.

The pounding becomes more insistent, driven as though by the devil himself.

A dull part of his barely lucid mind, not numbed by the panic, resisting the lure of  
the final sleep, knows that he should attempt to run, claw his way back the way he came.

But the pull of defeat is enticing, dragging his exhausted being down into the depths of the inky darkness. He can’t even lift his arms to defend himself, spent from the endless task of digging himself out of the hole of despair he’s submerged himself in.

A more hysterical part of him hopes against reason for the break of day, but he knows Grace won’t be there to spare him.

The air pressure changes from stagnant to electrified and he senses the detonation of the dynamite before he hears the deafening bang.

In the haze of the aftershocks, he can’t even will his bloodied hands to shield his face from the impact, heavy lashes collapsing in on themselves in a final display of defence.

The spray of splintering wood showers down around him as the support beams give way in a symphony of shards.

A sigh of relief, inhaling with a silent plea that death will come quickly, deliver him into the arms of the rest he so desperately craves, even if it is found buried a hundred miles underground.

The crush of the earth around him is comforting, but his traitorous body is still trying to fight for the life rapidly leaving it, lungs shivering as his limp form convulses.

“Run while you still can.” He manages when he distantly senses another presence there with him, mouthing around a mound of dirt as his throat closes in on itself.

A sharp stinging slap to the face drags him back to the surface of semi-consciousness.

“Fucking hell, Tommy.” A familiar voice rasps, thick with disgust and surprise, “This was not part of the arrangement.”

Tommy continues to stare ahead, unblinking at the bare wall as Alfie Solomons rag-dolls his listless form.

“Smoked it all up, didn’t ya, silly boy?”

He faintly registers the shattering of glass. Could be his pipe, shattering into millions of pieces on the floor. That or the fracturing of his psyche, the split seams severing from reality.

“We’re outnumbered. Not going to get to us in time.” The intoxicated glaze shrouding his blue eyes only adds to their haunting beauty; the pale ghost of the past refusing to give up the dead.

Alfie backhands him this time, swallowing down the perverse pleasure the movement generates, rising in his chest with the warm imprint colouring the sharp cut of his cheek.

He’s sick but at least he knows it, not like this wretched, gaunt shell of a man shivering before him.

“The banging, the shellfire, the whole bloody, orchestral cacophony of it all…it’s not real, mate.”

Tommy’s head lolls precariously, unresponsive in his laxness. His collarbones jut out from the thin layer of his undershirt, defending the translucent, delicate skin.

When he struggles to lift his head, it’s there. The old defiance in the upward tilt of his chin, glaring out from beneath the too thick lashes.

“Is that why I didn’t feel a thing.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but it’s a response. He might be off his head but his mind isn’t completely lost, not yet.

“You won’t feel anything ever again when I redecorate the shitty wallpaper with your insides!” Alfie shouts, answering nonsense with nonsense, suddenly irrationally incensed at the monotonous response. Angry that the most formidable ally and adversary he’s ever encountered has succumbed to the false promises of the unseen demons that stalk all men who returned from the war in body but not in spirit.

He pulls his gun without even realising it, jamming the barrel into Tommy’s shaking, wet temple.

In a display more horrific than anything Alfie has seen in waking memory, he leans into the cold metal like a warm caress. His face turns upward, opening up; a wilted flower searching for sunlight. 

“Make it stop.” Tommy whispers with broken determination. 

In this moment, he is the most broken, godforsaken creature that ever had the misfortunate pleasure of stumbling across Alfie Solomons’ threshold.

He lowers the weapon, making a contemplative noise in the back of his throat, before settling on brutality as the course to salvation.

“Fair warning, this will hurt.”

Those cold blue eyes, shining with desperation beneath the cold, unmoving surface, push Alfie over the edge, descending into madness, into the hell where men like them deserve to dwell.

The force of the explosion is devastating. Tommy’s flipped onto his front with the sheer force of it, the breath knocked out of his lungs.

He struggles onto his hands and knees despite his mind’s sleepy protests, demanding that he yield.

The shock sets in quickly and he shivers, exposed, desperately trying to move against the sudden weight that pins his waist, the phantom hand on his neck holding him in place.

“Give over then.” A far away voice demands.

Exhaustion outpaces the sudden resurgence of his will and he lowers his heavy head to rest on his elbows in submission, the fight draining out of him.

His chest tightens and he twists futilely against the sensation of pressure that blossoms suddenly at the base of his spine. 

“Breathe and it’ll pass.” The disembodied voice is almost soothing in its roughness.

Tommy disobeys the allure of unconsciousness, summoning the last reserves of his strength to divine air into his crushed windpipe, following the rise and fall of his collapsed chest, concaved by the crush of earth around him.

Sure enough, each inhale mutes the acuteness of the pain. The heady thrill of panic dissipates until it settles into a thrumming discomfort.

Shifting uncomfortably against the sensation, he dimly registers that the friction has stirred his cock into half hardness, trapped between his belly and the compacted earth.

“Fuck.” He sighs in frustration, screwing his eyes shut.

“Perfectly natural response to impending death, that. Used to happen in the trenches, so why not here?”

Tommy opens his mouth to respond and is greeted by his own winded gasp of surprise as his abdomen seizes sharply.

The blunt ache humming at the muted periphery of his senses has erupted into a stabbing pain.

A heavy weight settles over his lower body, barely perceptible in contrast to the violent intrusion that is blinding in its intensity. Did a beam fall, severing his spine?

It feels like he’s been impaled from the waist down, overwhelmed with the force of the trauma where there was previously only numb acceptance.

A cold sheen of sweat drenched him as his body spasms helplessly. Curses himself when even in this, his cock jumps traitorously, spurred on by the spike of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He’s suddenly startled in semi-consciousness, trembling and over sensitive when Alfie tears back and begins to pound into him, burying himself mercilessly.

It’s like being taken in the trenches all over again, sure that the enemy would get you first and how could this be worse?

He can taste the dirt in his mouth, grinding into his eyes as his face is buried into the man-made barricade. Opens his mouth to protest but can’t, choking on spit and drowning out his weak shouts.

Thicker than all of it, the ominous stench of charred human flesh and decay, is his own burning shame, more oppressive than the threat of capture or death itself.

A fist in his hair, twisting and threatening to tear the very nerve endings from his scalp, drags him from the edge of the abyss again, the horror of his memories temporarily abated.

“Still with me, soldier?”

Tommy can’t nod, can’t speak, unable to reconcile himself with the obscene noises filling the room.

Not the scrapping sound of his impending doom, but the foreign slickness of skin slapping against skin. Worse still, those guttural groans interspersed with fitful gasps for breath, surely that can’t be him?

Alfie answers his lack of verbal cues by slamming in to the hilt, tightening his grip on his shock of dark hair, manhandling him into position.

Tommy, back arching, howls. His untended prick drools, smearing the sweat soiled sheets.

“Not much for following orders but you can take a cock when it’s given to you, fuck me.” Alfie grunts animalistically, the smirk concealed behind his beard evident in his mocking tone.

Being spoken down to this way stirs something in Tommy, wakes him from despondency. He wants to disappear into the depths again, furious and embarrassed and desperately aroused, but the urge to fight back is stronger.

“All that horse riding stretched you out nicely before you got to the front lines, didn’t it?” Alfie muses, dragging him up to his knees forcefully, “Bet they passed your around like the camp whore’s last cigarette.”

Twisting even though the movement sends fissures of agony through his skull, Tommy answers by spitting at the side of the bigger man’s face.

“Could’ve used that about half an hour ago when I started splitting you open dry,” Alfie tuts pitifully, wiping the spittle from his jaw.

“Fuck off.” Tommy hisses viciously, shaking his head like it might clear the smoke, dislodge the sick thrill of want lodged there like barbed wire, slowly digging in and bleeding him dry.

“Not until you accept what you are. You like a bit of rough, a bit of strange, even if you’d rather die than admit it.”

“If you’re after a confession, you better get to work, Captain.” Tommy bites back.

He’s been tortured before. What’s withstanding a few more minute of repressed agony when the end will be coming through that wall for them anyway?

A powerful hand clamps down around his jaw. Preparing to have his neck snapped, Tommy closes his eyes, quietly murmuring the words that Freddy and John and Arthur won’t be there to whisper for him.

“In the bleak mid-winter…”

On the other side, he expects to be met with blackness, not the very much alive clash of full lips against his own.

His mouth is parted in surprise, gaping helplessly against the assault. Sharp teeth draw more blood from his lower lip, latching on and tearing the exposed flesh. His neck throbs at the awkwardness of the angle.

He hears himself moan, allowing the invasive tongue entry past the wall of his breached defences, groaning as the foreign taste of another mixes with his spit and blood.

Before he can stop himself, he’s moving in response, chasing the contact after so long lost in the void. He can feel Alfie inside of him, the mismatched embrace of their bodies only driving him deeper.  
When Alfie pulls off, shoving Tommy’s head forward and away, but not far enough to disconnect them, bracing a hand on his shoulder. His too plush lips and beard is marred with flecks of blood and skin, undeniable proof of their encounter.

“That’ll do it, I reckon.”

Running his own tongue over his lips, tracing the marks left there in awe, for the first time in years, Tommy’s head is blessed silent.

“More than one way to skin a cat, ain’t there?” Alfie continues, somewhat smugly, “Don’t need your words, mate. Practically begging for it, weren’t ya?”

Tommy doesn’t trust himself to speak without his voice breaking.

It’s then, after a cruel moment of gentle reprieve, the promise of the first rays of morning sun just out of reach, that the reverberations begin again.

“No.” Tommy whispers, frozen in fear as he stares dead ahead.

“Un-fucking-believable,” Alfie snorts, misunderstanding, “We’ve just shared blood. Blood, amongst other bodily fluids, not to mentions those currently staining your attire. And just like Peter discrediting the coming of the prophet, you deny, deny, deny!”

The clanging of metal on earth draws ever closer; the knocking rattles behind his eyelids, pounding in rhythm with his tortured heart.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. They’re here.”

Tommy’s suddenly hollow tone gives Alfie pause, forehead furrowing as he glances in the direction of the wall.

“Listen now, you’re safe.” He mutters, yanking Tommy close again so the broad expanse of chest connects with his back, in the vain hope that feeling something solid, something real will bring him to his scattered senses. 

“If you’re not going to finish me, then let me go!” Tommy shouts, voice shrill with hysteria. 

He begins to struggle wildly in the bigger man’s grip, against the demented voices in his head telling him to lie down, wait, give in. If he’s going to die here, it’s going to be on his feet, not on his knees waiting for the final blow to rain down on him. 

“Settle down, for fuck’s sake!” Alfie yells, losing his grip when Tommy slams his head back wildly into his exposed face.

Suddenly free to defend himself, Tommy dives forward towards the abandoned gun on the bed spread.

Alfie’s powerful forearms winds its way around his throat before he can dive on the weapon like a live grenade, cutting off his air supply.

He drags him back upright, using his superior weight as leverage. Tommy feels the breath punched out of him as he feels himself being pulled back, inch by inch, onto the bigger man’s length.

“Ssh, ssh, ssh, at ease, eh?” He coos softly.

Tommy struggles in the strong hold. His protests turn to whimpers as every movement only spears him further onto Alfie’s cock but he doesn’t stop his futile efforts to escape.

His shuddering turns into tremors, bile rising in his throat as waves of sickening pleasure roll up his spine.

“There you go.” Alfie coaxes, tightening his grip.

His free arm drags down Tommy’s belly, burning a path down his flesh as he lights up the sensitive, shaking skin. Calloused fingers wrap around his weeping cock.

“Want it to stop.” He gasps faintly, vision beginning to white out, jolting in shock as Alfie suddenly begins fucking him with his fist.

“This?” Alfie asks, rhythm faltering.

Tommy shakes his head as it hangs.

“The noise in my head.”

“Gets loud in there, doesn’t it? The gear doesn’t help with that.” Alfie hums, relishing in the way Tommy jumps in his grasp as he drags the wetness from his tip down to slick up his length.

The sudden jolt moves Alfie that miraculous fraction of inch, landing him in the spot inside Tommy that makes him cry aloud despite his best attempts to muffle it.

“Though I never touch the stuff myself, whiskey’s better. Bottom of a bottle makes it easier to know where to stop. Easier than finding your way alone through all that smoke.” Alfie hums, picking up the pace.

He rambles as he works Tommy into a lather, feeling every delicious clench of his ass around him, the flutter of his abdomen as the pleasure intensifies with every stroke.

“Stop struggling and let yourself sink a little into those muddy thoughts. Acknowledging it takes the fear away, eh? Like pulling back the curtains or turning on the lights. Nothing there but your own thoughts when you confront it head on.”

“Please...” Tommy whines desperately. His body betrays his position, moving into the contact despite his desperate will to escape it, outrun his own desire. If Alfie keeps going, he’s going to come like this. A blinding wave of panic washes over him as he feels his climax building, racing the threat of unconsciousness that’s blurring the edge of his vision. 

“Close?” Alfie asks, biting down on his own lip as Tommy’s tight inner walls begin to convulse around him.

“Can’t...” He gasps out, too overwhelmed to identify the sentiment as frustration or revulsion. 

They remain there for an eternity, losing time, stranded on the precipice, waiting for daybreak.

“Let go. Bit like dying isn’t it?” Alfie instructs, chuckling darkly as he strips his length, now dry and over sensitised, “Everything’s beautiful and nothing hurts anymore, eh?”

When Tommy finds words to speak, his voice comes out in a choked sob.

“Don’t let them get me, Alfie.”

The last thing he hears is a forlorn sign as the arm that has been supporting his head transforms into a noose around his neck. Tightens until his vision edges to black, framed by white stars.

“Don’t struggle, it’s over. I’ve got you, sweetie. No one’s going to hurt you ever again.”

The blackness comes over him before the shovels can reach him and the combination of euphoria and terror stop his breath as the walls close in.

*

When Tommy wakes, shivering and cold and foggy headed as a newborn colt, he’s alone.

Gasping as he returns to consciousness, the room is eerily silent. The first weak rays of daybreak peer hesitantly through the curtains.

Bolting upright, he searches the room with wild eyes, willing his heart to stop racing. Touching a gentle hand to his throat, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. The sharpness of the shards of glass barely register beneath his barefeet, numb with slowly dawning realisation.

“Fuck!” He shouts to the empty room, dropping his head into his hands. His skin itches with dried come, but it’s nothing compared to the burning behind his eyes.

In the street, a car idles into life and makes its way out of Birmingham, disappearing into the billowing smoke of the iron works.

*

At their next meeting in Camden Town, Tommy is quieter than usual.

They go through the motions, finalising their business with unusual efficiency.

“Whiskey?” Alfie asks customarily, sealing the end of the transaction.

“Best be off.” Tommy declines with a gentle incline of his head. His hands fumble as he secures his cap. The scrapping of his chair against the concrete floor is too loud when he stands.

“Suit yourself.” Alfie scoffs, moving to stand as well.

As if suddenly unsure of how to conduct himself, Tommy formally pro-offers his hand.

“No spit, no documents to sign. What’s this then?” Alfie asks, leaning over the desk to inspect it, powerful shoulders rolling with the movement, “Some informal pact of familiarity between persecuted races that I’m unaware of?”

Tommy clears his throat, standing firm.

“Thank you.”

Alfie’s eyes widen slightly, eyebrows raising into his hairline. 

“For how you conducted yourself. With the other business.”

Before Tommy can draw back, Alfie has lunged over desk, grabbing him by his collar and dragging him in close, within mauling distance. 

Without time to remove his cap from his forehead, he’s even less prepared when the forward momentum doesn’t stop until Alfie’s smashing their faces together, not with a Glasgow kiss but an even more devastating form of contact; hungry, full lips seeking out his own. 

It lasts longer than expected but it’s over before Tommy can register it, pulling back with his mouth red and wet as though he’s the one that’s been cut. 

“All the time we’ve been dealing with each other, what do you take me for, Tommy?” Alfie stares at him seriously, as though he’s attempting to convey a serious professional objective. Like he hasn’t just assaulted Tommy and everything he thought he knew about himself. 

“Personal business is like the rum, mate. Not discussed…unless you want it to be.”

Tommy shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak. 

“Right then.” Alfie offers his hand this time. 

Tommy, taking a second to compose himself, licks his lips consciously, not missing the way that his business partner traces the movement predatorily, accepts. 

The grip he finds himself locked in intense, but not in an overhanded manner that suggests dominance, a power struggle between opponents. Thick fingers shape around his own, subtle but breathtakingly intimate in the starkly formal setting. 

Even as his palms begin to sweat, he feels strangely comforted in the knowledge of their arrangement, professional obligation and whatever they are to each other beyond that, is secure, if not entirely stable. 

When he breaks the contact, he knows in his bones that this isn’t over. 

“Good doing business with you, Alfie.” He clears his throat, tipping his cap before heading for the door. 

“Believe me, the pleasure’s all mine.” Alfie folds his sizeable arms over his chest as he watches him go, stroking his beard contemplatively.

He waits till Tommy gets to the door, stalls, straightens his shoulders, fills out his coat until he’s transformed back into the indomitable force that manoeuvres and maims in his assentation to the pinnacle of their wicked world. 

“Until next time.” 

The easy assurance in the statement gives Tommy pause but only for a second, well concealed beneath his unwavering stance, the façade of his stance only dropping for a moment before resetting.

“Till next time.” He replies before striding out the door. 

When he gets out onto the street, he hastily pulls a cigarette, relishing the drag of nicotine. It temporarily staves off the unsettling restlessness that’s been awoken in him, humming beneath his skin, a new drive stronger than the haze of smoke and the pull of power. 

Desire is a terrible thing.


End file.
